


Sold

by autohaptic, rent_a_gundam



Series: Rent-a-Gundam [58]
Category: Gundam & Related Fandoms, Gundam 00
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arson, Biting, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Consensual Violence, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Fights, Forced Prostitution, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masochism, Swearing, Violence, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-14
Updated: 2009-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autohaptic/pseuds/autohaptic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rent_a_gundam/pseuds/rent_a_gundam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halle does it because Lyle doesn't ask for it. Asking would take the spontaneity out of things. The element of surprise is what keeps life interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sold

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the sprawling Rent-a-Gundam series: a university/rent-boy!AU that was co-written by Veda, Auto, Orange and Typo.
> 
> Only a portion of the RAG fics have been posted on AO3. For all other fics in the series, check out the Rent-a-Gundam journal: <http://rent-a-gundam.livejournal.com>
> 
> ***
> 
> This particular story was written by Auto and Orange.
> 
> Originally posted here: <http://rent-a-gundam.livejournal.com/11443.html>

Halle does it because Lyle _doesn't_ ask for it. Asking would take the spontaneity out of things. The element of surprise is what keeps life interesting.

Asking would also involve discussion of how it might happen. It's much easier to notice the way Lyle's posture shifts whenever whores are mentioned and plan something on his own.

He doesn't like Ali, but then again he doesn't like many people. And if he hates the cocksucker, well, it's that much more fun to get rid of him afterwards. The fact that Lyle hates him too is just icing on the dubiously consensual cake of Lyle's sex-for-money fantasy.

◊

Al-Saachez is as smart as Halle has come to expect by now; he opens his front door and lets Halle in with nothing more than a cursory pass to make sure he's not packing. They both know that he is, which just makes it all the more credible when Halle says, flat out: "I'm going to kill you."

To Ali's credit, of bravery if not good sense, he doesn't do more than blink. _Fucking idiot_ , Halle thinks.

"What, right now?"

Halle shrugs. "No, actually. First I plan on making you pay for the unique and distinguished pleasure of fucking my boyfriend. After that, you're dead."

Predictably, because every word is hand-picked for maximum effect, Ali grins. It's agreement, although Halle wagers that he doesn't know that yet. "And if I don't?"

"Then if I'm feeling real generous..." He offers his best grin, the one that makes little children piss their pants. "You _might_ get to leave this room in an ambulance."

Stupid motherfucker doesn't take it seriously. He laughs, like Halle is just some punk with a knife and an attitude. Well, it'll be his funeral. Lyle will probably send flowers.

"So which one's your boyfriend?" Al-Saachez asks, leaning forward a little on the couch. The movement says guarded intrigue, but that's a front. His eyes are tracking Halle's face, watching every change: _that_ is real interest, and that's what Halle came here for.

"Do you really care?" he tosses off, still grinning.

"Sure I do. Can't go around buying inferior goods, can I?" The voice is another front. Same message. He's good; Halle is better. "The way I heard it you guys are all over each other's cocks. Is it Lasse? Too straitlaced for you. The new guy-- Tieria? That little scene with Se-chan would've gone differently. No, it's one of the Dylandy boys, isn't it."

Halle lets his eyes narrow slightly. Al-Saachez grins like a kid in a candy store.

"Oh, it _is_. Shit, I almost hired one of them, you know."

That changes things. Halle cocks his head. "Really," he purrs, wondering which of Lyle's fingers he should break. (Of course it wasn't Neil.)

"Yeah, but he wasn't interested. Guess he changed his mind, huh?"

So he won't have to break any fingers after all. Halle curves his lips in a cold, fluid smile. "You could say that."

"He doesn't _know_!" Al-Saachez lets out a whoop of laughter. "Oh, you're a man after my own heart, Hallelujah Haptism." He leans further forward, offering a hand. Halle shakes it. Both men grip a little too tightly, and they let go in the same second, like they'd timed it.

"Do we have a deal, then?" he asks. It's easy to pretend, for a little while, that Ali is worth the dirt under his shoes.

"Sure." Another laugh. "Do I have to pay extra if I want to rough him up a little?"

Halle snorts. "Of course," he says, drawing out the words. "We're all businessmen here, right?"

"Right." The self-satisfied grin on Al-Saachez's face is priceless. He actually thinks they _understand_ each other, that they've reached an agreement between like-minded men.

In other words, he thinks Halle's threats are a bluff or a joke; he thinks that because he, Ali Al-Saachez, is the one with all the drugs and guns and money and whores, he must be the one with the power in this situation.

Which is why he, Ali Al-Saachez, is going to die sometime this week.

The thought makes his cock stir. Naturally, Ali notices. Naturally, he draws the wrong conclusion.

"Want to seal this with something a little more fun than a handshake?" The cruel glint in those green eyes is so very, very familiar. Halle sees it in the mirror every day. He answers with a broad smile, shrugging out of his jacket.

"Shit, I thought you'd never ask." The mimicry of Ali's speech patterns is intentional. Neither man pays any attention to the way Halle's jacket thunks against the hardwood floor.

It's easy to tell Al-Saachez is expecting a fight, and easier to tell he thinks he'll win it. Halle debates letting him, for about a quarter of a second. Then he dismisses the idea. Lyle would call it unfair, not letting the dumb fuck know exactly what he's up against; Halle calls it less fun.

He makes the first move, darting forward to close his fingers around Ali's wrists. That trick would have an unresisting target pinned to the couch in three seconds; dead in five, if Halle so chose. Ali's eyes widen in startlement at at Halle's speed, but he catches on fast and throws himself forward, trusting to his superior weight to get Halle on the ground.

Halle isn't having any of that shit. By the time they hit the floor, he's twisting like a cat, half out from under Al-Saachez and still moving. His elbow goes into Ali's ribs, and he smashes one of those captive wrists into the floor. As a courtesy, he holds back enough that the bones won't break.

Retaliation comes in the form of a headbutt, which he avoids, and a punch to the face, which he doesn't. Ali shifts his weight again, rolling them to one side; Halle moves with it, continuing the tumble until he's straddling the bastard with both hands pinning his arms above his head.

Al-Saachez grins up at him, undaunted. "Is this how you play it with your little slut?" he asks.

 _For that_ , Halle thinks, _you die slow._

"No." He mirrors the grin. "With him I get _rough_."

"Show me," Al-Saachez commands, and Halle almost laughs. With two words, his victory has just been turned into acquiescence, into submission; with two words, his victory has just been assured. You don't play mind games like that with a fight you think you'll win.

"Yes _sir_ ," he husks, and lowers his head to sink his teeth into the join of neck and shoulder. Ali tenses in all the wrong places, enduring the pain instead of enjoying it, calculating resistance instead of signaling surrender.

Anticipating a counterattack, Halle shifts his weight. He's rewarded half a second later with an abortive lunge-- abortive, that is, because almost before the movement starts Al-Saachez realizes he's been predicted. He puts some muscle into it anyway, but neither man is surprised when the move fails. Halle lifts his head far enough to smirk into those cold green eyes.

"Thought you told me to show you how it's done," he says, flavouring his voice with a hint of reluctant submission. "You gonna play nice or what?" The act is at odds with his natural cruelty, but Al-Saachez eats it up, frantic to believe that he's really the one in control here.

"Are _you_ gonna make it worth my while?" Al-Saachez counters, all cocky assurance. It's a masterful piece of theatre. Halle feels like he should be selling tickets.

Instead of answering with words, he presses his mouth to the side of Ali's neck again. A little higher this time. His tongue sweeps out over delicate skin; he imagines sinking his teeth in and ripping out that tender throat. The idea of it is enough to make him grind his stiffening cock down into Ali's stomach.

A slight movement, a minimal release of tension, signals him that his abrupt gentleness has had its intended effect. He's not nearly done yet. Smirking into Ali's throat, he lets go of both the man's wrists and slides back, raking his teeth over the exposed angle of a collarbone on his way. It's barely enough to scratch, but Ali tenses involuntarily, then does it again when Halle's nimble fingers flick open the button of his fly.

He knows exactly what's going to happen next. With two hands free and every indication that he's about to receive the most painful blowjob of his life, Ali grabs the back of Halle's head _just_ so. Between two such similar people, the message is clear even without a prior understanding: bite me and I'll break your fucking neck.

Unlike Ali, Halle isn't willing to risk calling that kind of bluff without a little security. He breaks the grip, but not the wrist, then glances up and smiles.

"Worth every fucking second, promise. And don't worry about me damaging your cock. I'll need it later."

The strain of not making another grab is written all up and down the lines of Ali's body. Halle finds it a fair trade for the submissive way he waits, eyes half-lidded, until the logic comes through and the hand drops to his shoulder. Tacit permission, as good as he's going to get.

The pain of a thumbnail digging into the base of his neck confirms the extant theory: what Al-Saachez wants here is a good hard fuck that leaves both of them looking like they just came off the worse end of a bar brawl. Maximum face saved, maximum pleasure gained, given that Halle is the one who's going to win this fight.

He doesn't waste the chance to prove he can deliver, then. His fingers slide under the waistband of the grey silk boxers and he yanks, scraping his nails over Ali's narrow hips.

Nose pressed to warm brown skin, he inhales. Then he takes Ali's cock in his mouth.

He isn't gentle. Fuck gentle. He's rough and brutal and demanding, all hot wet tongue and a hint of teeth, exactly how _Lyle_ would like it.

Ali responds with tension-- the tension of fear and anger and strained self-control. At first. Then Halle swallows, throat working around the head of Ali's cock, and the message written in those wire-taut muscles moves from _no_ to _oh_ to _yes_.

When Ali moans, low and soft and just this side of needy, Halle wraps his hands around the man's hips and pins him preemptively to the floor. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Ali tries to thrust. Halle doesn't let him.

The ensuing battle is brief but fierce. Al-Saachez threads his fingers through Hallelujah's hair and pulls him down. Halle is having none of that; he ignores the pain, resists the pressure, and deep-throats Ali in his own damn time.

Funny thing, but the silent complaints taper off considerably after that.

Halle pulls every trick in the book and some he's pretty sure have never been written down. When he feels Ali's fingers tighten again, when the tension of the muscles under his hands starts climbing towards a familiar threshold, he pulls back abruptly.

"Son of a bitch," Al-Saachez growls.

As a bonus, when Halle gives Ali's cock a long, slow lick from base to tip, the movement covers his smirk nicely. The next thing he does is go deep again, burying his nose in wiry red hair, and he's gratified that Al-Saachez shuts up almost immediately.

The peace is short-lived. Halle can feel Ali climbing towards the edge again, and he pulls his head away. "Patience," he suggests, stealing one of Lyle's favourite lines, "is a virtue." Every word breathes warm air onto sensitive skin; Al-Saachez shivers almost imperceptibly. A less observant man could easily miss the signal.

"Fuck virtues." The curse is halfway to a groan and not far from a plea. "Don't you dare leave me hanging like this, you smug little bastard."

Instead of answering verbally, Halle lowers his mouth to the base of Ali's shaft and does it all again. The wet slide of his tongue is almost affectionate, though he knows the sentiment won't come through. It takes years of loving sadism to build _that_ unspoken vocabulary.

And Ali is too busy forcing himself not to beg for orgasm.

"You little shit. You fucking cocktease. Give me one good reason not to shoot you right--"

Hallelujah gives him a reason. Several reasons, in fact, all of them hot and slick and intentionally maddening. The sentence cuts off abruptly, overtaken by a sharp gasp.

It's pathetically easy to read the inner conflict raging through Ali's mind and body. A man like that can't stand to lose control, can stand it even less when it feels this fucking good. Halle almost sympathizes. Then he remembers how much he hates this son of a bitch, and for a few seconds he's a little rougher than _show me_ really warrants.

He knows he's doing this right when the scrape of teeth and fingernails just winds Al-Saachez tighter, a coil of raw pleasure too far gone to discriminate between sensations.

"So," he says, lifting his head again. "This is the part where I find us a bed and then fuck you until you come screaming."

Al-Saachez doesn't answer until Halle yanks him to his feet and marches him down the hall. Then he starts struggling. Halle lets go early, mostly to save himself the trouble of actually doing any finding. His rewards are a punch in the jaw, a bitten ear, and a hand around his cock when they stumble through the door of the master bedroom.

He tolerates Ali's dominance for about four seconds. Then he twists, slamming the other man face-first into the wall. "You told me to show you how he likes it." His teeth rake viciously along the curve of Ali's shoulder. "I'm just following orders... Daddy."

All the whores in this household are half Al-Saachez's age or less. Deducing _that_ kink is not exactly rocket science. Nevertheless, the strength of the reaction is surprising; it makes Ali shiver in a way that's very new.

Halle considers getting on his knees and picking up where he left off, but a few more rounds of that game and he might have to dodge a bullet on his way out of here. Not in the plan. Instead, he gives the room a quick once-over.

"Keep any lube in here? No, wait, forget I asked." He doesn't need directions; the shift in attention, the movement of Ali's body under his fingers, is as good as quantum brainwaves. Halle moves for the bedside table three feet away and opens the top drawer to find a wealth of little bottles, along with two buttplugs and a pair of handcuffs.

Ali makes the mistake of grabbing Halle by the neck with only one hand. Maybe the other one was held back for a strike. Hallelujah will never know, because he jabs his elbow into Ali's ribs and then reaches back to--

No. No breaking bones today, he reminds himself. Throwing Al-Saachez onto the bed is a piss-poor substitute, but the look of enraged lust in those beautiful green eyes almost makes up for the lack. Grinning, Halle pounces.

A bed is an excellent place to wrestle if you don't plan on doing your opponent any major damage, and for once that condition holds. Both men are bruised and panting by the time Halle finally pins Ali to the mattress. He reaches over, extracts a tube from the drawer, and opens it with his teeth.

Al-Saachez twists back to watch with thinly veiled hunger. So he's finally caught on that the only way he's coming right now is with Halle's cock in his ass and Halle's name on his lips. Took the stupid bastard long enough.

Halle makes it a performance, then, stroking himself with slick fingers. The lube drips from his hands onto everything-- Ali's thighs, Ali's sheets.

Some perverse whim prompts him to lean forward, plant a hand between Al-Saachez's shoulderblades, and shift his weight into the contact. Ali's face presses ignobly into the pillow.

"This is going to hurt," Halle tells him softly, letting up the pressure and moving back. It's a threat, not a warning; there's no kindness in his husky whisper. Lyle would spread his legs and moan, or struggle for the pleasure of subjugation.

Ali lifts himself onto hands and knees, near shaking from a hundred kinds of tension, and shoots a look of pure venom back over his shoulder. "That's the point," he spits.

Resisting the temptation to leave him that way and see how long it takes until the strain of the passive role breaks his self-discipline, Halle hooks two fingers into Ali's asshole. It's even tighter than he expected; has this man _ever_ been fucked?

Without making a sound, Al-Saachez protests this careless treatment. The message is written in the lines of his back so clearly it might as well have been carved there by a knife.

Halle's cock jumps at the thought, and he withdraws his hand, positioning himself for the first thrust. Unlike Ali, he isn't shy about making noise. The moans drawn from his throat by heat and friction and pressure are given freely.

There are limits to the miracles you can work with skill, talent, and orgasm denial. He slides a hand around to stroke Ali's cock, grinning at the stifled hiss of pleasure, the way Al-Saachez tenses all over again. Some guys need the reach-around; some don't. Ali definitely belongs to the first group.

Just to emphasize the point, he leans forward and bites down hard on Ali's shoulder, right over the curve of that tattoo. The reaction, a tangible half-stifled flinch, is all wrong and absolutely delicious. So Halle does it again, pausing to breathe a few words in Ali's ear.

"Just like you told me to," he whispers between vicious thrusts. "I'm all yours, Daddy. All yours..."

If he threads a note of fear into his voice, he can convince some part of Al-Saachez that this was all _his_ idea. That Halle is just doing what he's told; that he, Ali Al-Saachez of the drugs and whores and money and guns, set this all up. That every bruise and every bite is an act of real submission.

He's playing the long game here, taking advantage of the fact that enough pleasure will make anybody easy to confuse. The more he can manipulate Ali into underestimating him, the easier it will be to gut the bastard eventually.

With that beautiful fantasy in mind, Halle squeezes Ali's cock in expert fingers. Bringing him to the edge hardly counts as effort; _keeping_ him there, balanced in the space just before orgasm while Halle fucks him brutally into the mattress, deserves some kind of medal.

Now it's just a matter of which breaks first: Halle's tenuous control, or Al-Saachez's stubborn pride.

"You little _asshole_ ," Al-Saachez grates out, and Halle runs an encouraging tongue up the ridge of his spine. "Fucking cocktease. I should kill you for-- _fuck_ \--"

"But I always make him beg for it," Halle murmurs. It's total nonsense, thrown out there as an excuse to be a little bit more of a bastard, and on the slim chance that Ali might follow through on the suggestion.

He finally gives in. The feeling of Al-Saachez shuddering under and around him combines with the thought of Lyle refusing to submit, bruised and bloody and laughing through tears of pain. Hallelujah comes, half a second after Al-Saachez paints his hand with sticky white.

When he bounces out of bed a minute later, Ali is still recovering. Half to be an asshole, half to cement the idea of his submissiveness, Halle starts licking semen from his fingers.

By the time he swallows the last drop, he has Ali's undivided attention.

"I'll call you," Al-Saachez tells him, never looking away from his damp lips. "We can talk... prices." His breath hitches, faint but audible, when Halle sucks on the web between thumb and forefinger.

"Sure," Halle agrees breathily, and doesn't turn fully away when he heads for the door. The half-sideways half-backwards just-short-of-a-scuttle is awkward even with his natural grace, intentionally so. It gives the impression that he'd rather look like an idiot than turn his back on Ali.

Lyle won't like the deception. But Lyle will be too busy counting his bruises and sighing happily to ask, and the fact that Halle opened this conversation with a bald death threat should be good enough.

Two minutes later, whistling jauntily under his breath and smoothing the hastily-dressed look out of his shirt with one hand, he leaves the house.

◊

Halle steps closer, slides an arm around Lyle's shoulders, and bites down on the side of his neck. Just under his ear, right where he likes it.

"Mm," says Lyle, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "What's the occasion?"

He nibbles again, then answers. "You've been sold, sweetcheeks."

The sound of Lyle's eyes snapping open again is tiny but very, very familiar. "You _didn't_ ," he breathes, in that tight, warm voice he uses when Hallelujah gets something absolutely perfect.

"Struck gold there, did I?" Of course he did. They know each other that well by now. But he likes to gloat, and Lyle likes to hear him.

"God, you're unbelievable." Halle can _hear_ Lyle's cock rising, in the way he pauses before every other word. "Do I-- mm, right there, yeah-- do I get to ask who and when?"

"Al-Saachez." He delivers the name like an ultimatum, paired with another bite. The reaction is immediate. Lyle tenses up; his whole body becomes taut with something very close to fear.

Softly, "Hallelujah..."

His full name. That's serious, then. Halle straightens, spins the chair around, and kneels. The press of his lips, kissing a path down Lyle's shirtless chest from collarbone to navel, says: _trust me?_

Lyle groans, tightening his fingers on the arms of the chair, and lets his head fall back. He doesn't relax, but it's a different kind of tension. An answer. _Always._

Smirking, Halle nuzzles Lyle's cock through his jeans. Just enough to get his hopes up a little. Then it's back up on his feet, catching Lyle's face in both hands, giving him a proper kiss. The kind with teeth.

"Still mine," he whispers when he finally pulls back.

"Still yours," Lyle agrees.

Other couples have _I love you_. This is more... personal.

◊

Halle, Lyle thinks, is a devious bastard. Selling him to Ali Al-Saachez is one thing; dragging him to the fucker's house in nothing but his tightest pair of jeans, denied the dignity of shirt or underwear, is another. At least he's allowed to wear shoes.

But when his boyfriend drags him into an alley and shoves him back against the wall, then kneels and unbuttons those jeans with his teeth, Lyle privately concludes that he must be in Hell. Sweet, shameful, decadent Hell.

Two minutes later, Lyle is watching his favourite devious bastard ring Al-Saachez's doorbell with a free elbow, and the only sign of their little detour is the blatant tent in his single article of clothing.

"Brought you the goods," Halle says cheerfully when the door opens, adjusting his hold on Lyle's wrists. "Undamaged."

Lyle twists in the grip of those strong hands, but his struggles are more or less for show. He knows he's not going anywhere; he doesn't _want_ to go anywhere.

"Not for long," Ali replies, smirking. He steps back to let the pair of them inside.

Lyle watches Ali's face as he follows Halle into the house. The hard green eyes, the scraggly goatee, the smile both familiar and strange.

Halle yanks sharply on Lyle's wrist, waits until he almost has his balance again, and then shoves him forward. He stumbles into Ali, who grabs him by the collar and smacks him. It's a good hit, for a normal human. Measured against Halle's capacity for violence it's a love-tap at best.

"Eyes on the floor, slut. Haven't you trained the bitch at all, Haptism?"

"He just needs to know you mean business. Punish him every time he acts up, and he'll start paying attention."

Ali snickers. "I look forward to it."

Lyle isn't sure which is winning: his arousal, or his hatred. Both compel him to twist his head and sink his teeth into the back of Ali's hand.

Halle laughs at Ali's furious hiss, and laughs harder when Ali retaliates by shoving Lyle to his knees and kicking him in the ribs.

"Do that again, bitch, and I'll hand you back to your boyfriend in pieces."

Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. Lyle reads Halle's posture at a glance; if he wasn't sure before that Ali won't outlive the weekend, he is now. Nobody gets to use that word.

"Terrifying," he mocks, because it's easier to push the envelope than think about whose envelope he's pushing and what that means. Almost absently, Ali gives him another kick.

"Shut up, slut." He turns his attention to Halle. "Want to stick around and watch me fuck your mouthy little whore until he bleeds?"

Lyle looks up reflexively; he knows Halle's grinning at that one, and he wants to see the bright cruel smile. Ali hits him again, a backhand across the face that lands hard enough to make his head rattle.

"Sure I do," says Halle, jauntily.

"In that case, come on in. Take off your shoes. You too, slut. I don't want anybody tracking dirt on my carpets."

Halle snorts derisively, but obliges. Lyle follows suit after a second or two, and smiles at the floor when Halle asks, "Which way's the bedroom again?"

"Over here." Ali doesn't wait for Lyle to get up; he just kicks him viciously in the head. " _You_ can crawl."

Lyle shivers. He also trails obediently after Al-Saachez on hands and knees. Behind him, Halle's footsteps are close to soundless against the hardwood floor of the living room. When they cross into a carpeted hallway, even that small noise vanishes. But he doesn't have to see or hear Halle to know he's following.

Sure enough, when they reach the bedroom and Ali closes the door behind him, there Halle is. He leans against the wall, casual as anything. Lyle doesn't look any higher than his knees, not quite ready to disobey orders again just yet.

"Time to prove you're worth the price, slut."

He'd have to be brain-damaged not to figure out what Ali wants from him, when the bastard is sitting on the edge of the bed with his knees apart and his pants around his ankles. Lyle crawls over, eyes fixed submissively on the wine-red carpet.

When he reaches his target, he lifts his head and grins directly into Ali's eyes. The punishing blow is everything he could have hoped for; sucking blood from his split lip, he leans forward.

"The bitch likes it when you get rough with him, huh? Don't think I'm gonna go easy on you, whore. You're with a _real_ man now."

Lyle bites back laughter. He'd be lying if he said those words didn't give him tremors, ridiculous as they are. He blesses Halle's frighteningly perfect poker face, brushes his lips over Ali's cock, and opens his mouth.

A hand fists tightly in his hair; another curls around the back of his neck. The implied threat draws a moan from him, and he seals his lips around Ali's shaft, tongue sliding urgently against the warm dry skin.

It tastes like old sweat under the pleasant tang of Lyle's own blood. Secure in the sweet joy of that hand on his neck, the one that says _act up and I'll kill you without a second thought_ , he doesn't care.

The sense of danger is intoxicating and nostalgic. Lyle remembers those first few months with Halle, remembers every act of frantic self-destructive rebellion, and whimpers desperately around his mouthful of cock.

"Not bad at all," Ali tells him, and he can hear the smirk in the bastard's voice. "You _should_ come work for me."

Lyle moans again, half desire, half despair. He knows damn well he'll never get the chance to take that offer, and without Halle pulling the strings, he'd end up beaten to death for being a mouthy asshole if he did. The suggestion still has him trembling.

Ali notices, of course. The rumble of laughter has Lyle itching to bite, but he refrains. He's lost the death wish of those early days.

He wonders if Halle set all this up just to remind him.

The hand in his hair twists, seeking a firmer grip, then yanks his head up; the hand on his neck lets go.

"That's enough of that," Ali says jovially. Lyle inhales, grateful for the momentary chance to catch a full breath, and runs his tongue across bruise-swollen lips. The faint taste of fresh blood gives him a pleasant little shiver.

Naturally, Ali doesn't pass up the chance to mock his eagerness. "Enjoying yourself, slut?"

Craning his neck uncomfortably to meet Ali's eyes, Lyle lets himself grin.

"I could do this all day, asshole."

There's an unwritten rule somewhere that good whores are supposed to be ashamed of themselves. Lyle has never bought into it. Particularly not when going against the grain is such an effective red flag for violent bastards. Needless to say, Al-Saachez hits him.

He blinks a few times to clear his eyes, bringing up a hand to trace the incipient bruise on his cheek. They're nice like this, when the pain is still settling in and the damaged flesh hasn't had any time to swell.

Ali is not impressed by his masochism.

"Get on the bed," he orders casually. Deciding the time isn't right for a 'make me', Lyle obeys.

He shudders when Ali's fingers find the button of his jeans, but it's revulsion that moves him, not arousal. Somehow it's infinitely less degrading to touch than to be touched. The fantasy of being bought as a toy is intoxicating; the reality is Ali Al-Saachez unzipping his fly with dirt-smudged hands and shoving him onto his back. No escape. No opportunity to give consent or withhold it.

A soft sound from over by the door reminds him that's not quite true. If he freaks out hard enough, Halle will intervene.

Halle will kill Ali. Halle will kiss Lyle, and hold him, and wrap an arm around his throat and make him forget the body weighing down the sheets beside them while they fuck.

Drawing in a shaking breath, Lyle lifts his hips off the bed and lets Ali rid him of the infamous jeans. He chokes down a protest at the feel of dry fingertips sliding roughly between the cheeks of his ass, nails scraping the sensitive skin. It's uncomfortable, but he's enjoyed worse.

Across the room, Halle relaxes fractionally in his peripheral vision. Ali, oblivious to his brush with death, leans across Lyle to retrieve a bottle of lube from the nightstand.

Lyle spreads his legs and tilts his head back. He knows exactly what he looks like, because it's been described to him so many times: the line of his throat stark and bare and enticing, the way his back arches slightly and his stomach muscles tense up.

But Ali doesn't lean forward and rake his teeth across Lyle's neck. He doesn't even finger Lyle properly. One second nails, the next his cock, just painful enough at first to make Lyle breathless with want.

And he doesn't touch Lyle's erection.

He's not ignoring it to tease, like Halle, with a guarded space in his movements. He's ignoring it because it doesn't matter to him.

Fine by Lyle, who hasn't needed a reach-around since the first time Halle bent him over a table. As Tieria is so fond of saying, there are exercises. He gasps his way through his first dry orgasm after a dozen savage thrusts, fixing his eyes on the ceiling as pain gives way to uncomfortable pleasure.

The only problem with this situation, he decides, is that it doesn't _hurt_ enough. Somebody else might get off on being used, on Ali's obvious disregard for anything but his own cock. Lyle is not that person. He wants pain.

Secure in the knowledge of Halle's watchful presence, he meets Ali's eyes. He doesn't need to say anything; a fleeting look of contempt is all it takes, and one broad hand wraps around his throat.

His mind fills with static. The way his head tips back and his hands scrabble in the sheets must look enough like fear, or contrition, or whatever the fuck Ali wants from him, because after about ten seconds of pure glory that hand lets go. Lyle inhales with a touch of his old reluctance, moaning as soon as he has the air.

A glance to Halle confirms that he's moved a step or two closer. Just in case. Lyle grins, forgetting himself momentarily, and receives a backhand to the face for his trouble.

The haze of approaching orgasm enfolds his senses again, shattering his attention, making the world a kaleidoscope of fractured pleasures. Ali's cock pounding into him. The taste of blood. The smell of sweat and lube and unwashed blankets. His fingers tangling in the sheets. The lingering pain of myriad injuries.

Ali shudders above him, groaning something predictable; Lyle can't be bothered to listen. He knows he's going to come again, for real this time, any second now.

Of course Ali gets there first.

Lyle feels him withdraw and hisses in frustration. Now he's going to have to wait until he gets home to--

A fist slams into his ribs.

The hiss derails into a groan.

The next blow hits his stomach, and the next his face, and he wrestles a hand out of the sheets to touch his cock. It doesn't get there in time. Ali punches him again; he arches his back and comes with a soundless gasp.

Laughing, Ali stands up. Lyle tries to catch his breath, flopped back with his legs spread wide and one arm dangling off the edge of the bed.

While he's still panting, Ali hits him again. He arches his back in a silent demand for more, and that's exactly what he gets.

The first time Ali's fist lands in his groin, he grunts with surprised agony. The second time, a quarter-minute later, he blinks the tears from his eyes and grins. He never tries to get away, never curls inward from his wide-open _come and get me_ pose.

Ali, apparently, finds that infuriating. Or maybe alluring. Either way, he grabs Lyle's dangling arm and drags him bodily off the bed, then starts kicking him.

Lyle falls to hands and knees on the floor. He soaks up the pain like a sponge, breathing heavily, shuddering whenever Ali hits a preexisting bruise. On the dark red carpet, his blood disappears wherever it falls. He wonders if that's an intentional design choice.

At some distance, he is aware of Halle by the door, enjoying his pain almost as much as he is. The knowledge is enough to keep him laughing when Ali's fists and feet break the barrier of his masochism. Like a lot of things today, that reminds him of those first few months. He hasn't always enjoyed pain for its own sake.

It takes him a second or two to process the fact that Ali isn't hitting him anymore.

His jeans tumble across the floor in front of him, shoved there by a bloodstained foot.

"Get dressed, slut. Party's over."

He struggles into a sitting position. The bed makes an excellent and much-needed support while he coaxes the tight denim onto his battered legs. Ali is already dismissing him, moving to talk to Halle about some fucking thing. Lyle's awareness is much more centered on his bruises than the man who gave them to him.

When he finally manages to zip up and stand, Halle is grinning at him. It's half for show, half the _can I can I can I?_ of a child begging for a turn on the carousel.

In the space behind the false part of that smile, there's a more serious question.

"Go home," Halle orders, trailing his fingers possessively down Lyle's bare chest. "I'll catch up with you later. Business, y'know."

Ali laughs. Lyle stifles a sudden lunatic urge to warn the man. His eyes flick sideways for half a heartbeat before returning to Halle's face.

"Yes sir," he says, so quiet he can barely hear himself.

Halle's fingernails dig into a bruise over his hipbone in a friendly, affectionate way. Then Halle drops his hand, and Lyle walks out. The bedroom door shuts behind him a few seconds after he enters the hall.

◊

He closes the door and turns back around. Ali is grinning back at him from the bed, one blood-smeared hand wrapped around his cock. Halle has never seen anybody use violence to revive an erection before, at least not this casually. It's almost sweet.

"Weren't you going to kill me?" Ali asks, perhaps to fill time while Halle strips. "What happened to that?"

Halle laughs. "Oh, I still am," he says genially, unbuckling his belt. "Just have to wait for the right moment."

"You didn't even bring a damn gun this time." Probably that counts as teasing. "Gonna have a tough time of it."

There's hiding his motives in plain sight, and then there's recklessly taunting a dangerous man; this conversation is starting to veer towards the latter. Al-Saachez might be an idiot, but he's a formidable idiot. Halle grins, acknowledging the point, and saunters towards the bed. Walking on Lyle's blood to get there is an unlooked-for bonus.

He sheds his jeans along the way. Al-Saachez is waiting for him with lube and a smirk. Halle is sorely tempted to straddle the man, but that would probably be more aggression than he can get away with. Instead, he fakes uncertainty and slows down on the last two steps. Al-Saachez stands, reaches forward, and grabs him by the throat.

"You're mine now, Hallelujah Haptism."

Theoretically, Ali could kill him right now. It isn't _likely_ , but it could happen. Halle flicks his eyes down in a reluctant approximation of a nod. His caution is enough like fear to mollify Al-Saachez, who squeezes his neck once-- just to make the point-- and then shoves.

Halle lets himself be steered towards the oddly feminine dresser at one end of the room, a bare wooden table with drawers underneath and a mirror at the back. He's not about to comment on the fucking thing. If Ali wants to fuck in front of a mirror, they can fuck in front of a fucking mirror.

There's something not quite right about that reflection. Halle has a great opportunity to contemplate this, because Al-Saachez plants Halle's hands on the polished oak in front of the mirror while he takes his sweet time about lubing himself up. No courtesy fingerfuck for Halle, of course. That would be too much like generosity.

It's not until he hears a soft noise from the other side of the wall that he puts the pieces together. The mirror is flush with the wall-- inset by a millimetre or two, in fact, although there's a thick frame in place to disguise that-- and the image it offers is tinted slightly. This isn't the first time Halle has seen a one-way mirror, although it's the first time he's seen one in a private home. Rich, kinky bastard, that Al-Saachez.

Speaking of which, just as Halle is starting to wonder who's on the other side, a slick hand closes roughly on his hip and something blunt and solid nudges his asshole.

He arches wantonly, pushing back against the pressure.

It's so unexpected that he can feel the moment, a heartbeat after the first sharp thrust, when Al-Saachez realizes what he's doing. In the fingernails digging into his hip and the heat of a slow breath against the back of his neck, Halle can read thoughts colliding as Ali tries to understand his sudden transformation. The dumbshit's sad little world has no room in it for dominant men who like to be fucked.

A decision is made, an explanation provided, but he's not sure what it is yet. Hard to tell. Doesn't matter much, anyway; there's not a hope in hell of Al-Saachez understanding what's _really_ going on. So Halle moans and gasps and keeps his hands on the tabletop like a good little boy, and Al-Saachez fucks him ruthlessly, trying to erase his enjoyment with rougher handling.

 _Good luck, asshole_.

Of course it doesn't work. Halle just grins into the mirror, meets Ali's reflected eyes, and watches them narrow with rage. That's it, then. Al-Saachez knows he's being played, but he hasn't figured out the game.

If Halle has any say in the matter, he never will.

"C'mon," he pants, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "Put a little effort into it, cocksucker."

"Oh, is that how it is?" Al-Saachez asks, leaning forward to wrap an arm around Halle's neck. "You're like _him_ , aren't you. Fucking painslut."

The arm tightens. Halle isn't into this, not like Lyle, but he thinks of wrapping Ali's steaming guts around his cock and feels it harden while he fights for air. Close enough. And he _does_ like it rough; the tiny moans every time Ali slams into him are very real.

Al-Saachez is pathetically easy to manipulate. Halle is almost tempted to feel sorry for the cocksucker. Even though he knows Halle is pushing his buttons on purpose, he responds with exactly what he thinks Halle wants: more violence. There's nothing rational about it. Ali is angry and he wants to take that anger out on Halle by fucking him until he cries.

There's one thing Halle didn't expect, though, and that's Al-Saachez addressing the mirror.

"Get your ass in here, Se-chan."

Halle starts to chuckle. It's strained and hoarse thanks to Ali's strangling arm, but still recognizable. It's also probably the reason why Ali yanks him away from the mirror and throws him to the floor.

"Hands and knees," Al-Saachez orders. Halle obeys cheerfully. The fastest way to take all the joy out of this kind of dominance is to play along and enjoy every second of it. He should know; once upon a time, that was Lyle's favourite trick, and it worked on Halle almost as well as it's working on Ali.

"Quit playing around and fuck me already," he demands. As long as he doesn't try to fight back physically, all the mouthiness in the world will just annoy Ali into nailing him harder. No danger in it. "I didn't come here to make sweet love in front of your fucking kinky-ass mirror."

"No?" Ali's voice has a very specific tone: the one that says _aha, I'm onto something_. "You didn't, did you? Shit, you set all this up to get at my cock. I'm flattered."

A fist closes on Halle's hair, yanking his head back. He groans happily when Ali starts fucking him again, hard and fast, deliciously painful. There's no reason to answer that statement. If Al-Saachez wants to jerk off his own ego, let him. The bastard's minutes are numbered. It is a very small number, and getting smaller.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Setsuna enter the room and take up a watchful position by the door. A very specific and familiar watchful position, because Halle himself was standing there a quarter of an hour ago. Just like he thought, Setsuna has been on the other side of that mirror since the whole show started. Al-Saachez is using all this to threaten the kid.

"An audience," he gasps out, fingers curling against the carpet. "You really do think of everything, asshole."

Very intentionally, his strained and breathless voice will hardly carry the words, let alone any emotion to go with them. Al-Saachez will just have to guess whether he's getting off on the attention or ashamed of being showcased as a cock-loving slut.

A soft snort of laughter from behind him, broken into pieces by the interruption of Ali's forceful thrusts, tells him which one Al-Saachez is going with. Well, that was predictable. Teeth bared in a ferocious grin, Halle arches his back and moans loudly. He doesn't plan on leaving Ali with any illusions about how much he's enjoying this.

Naturally, Ali is less than happy with his reaction. Halle thinks, in hindsight, that he probably should've predicted what was going to follow. As it is, he's only surprised for about half a second when Ali pulls out and yanks him to his feet. Get angry; change positions. He doesn't spend much effort trying to untangle the logic of that sequence, because it's going to stop mattering very shortly.

Al-Saachez slams him against the wall and presses close behind him. Halle thinks about what changes he could make to this power dynamic with fifteen seconds and a knife; the mental image is enough to draw another moan of lust from his throat. He presses his cheek into the smooth wallpaper and closes his eyes, humming with pleasure when Ali's cock pounds into his ass.

The best advantage of being fucked into a wall is that it's very difficult to strangle him like this. Halle takes that as an unlooked-for bonus. Al-Saachez, meanwhile, clearly thinks he's won again. The way his nails dig into Halle's skin has taken on a definite undertone of smugness.

Fine. He can be as smug as he fucking likes. Halle closes his eyes, imagines whacking off over this asshole's corpse, and feels a tremor of pleasure run through his body. It builds quickly, urged on by Ali's savage thrusts, until he's throwing his head back and painting the wall with his come.

He reaches back, gasping soundlessly, to slide a hand along the line of Ali's jaw. A clumsy caress. Al-Saachez grunts, his breath quickening. Not long now, all else being equal.

Halle can't help smiling. A shiver overtakes him, then another. His fingers close harder on Ali's face. He arches his back, moans softly, and twists his hand.

The sharp _snap_ and the way Al-Saachez stiffens all at once are fucking beautiful. He stays almost perfectly still as the body slides off him, only straightening up when he hears it thud against the floor.

When he turns, that damn kid is still watching from the doorway.

"Gonna give me any shit about this?" Halle asks calmly, raising his eyebrows at the silent whore.

Setsuna shakes his head.

"Good." He starts to collect his clothes, ignoring the kid completely. Boxers, jeans, shirt, jacket-- "The fuck are you doing still standing there?"

More silence. While he waits for an answer, he starts getting dressed. By the time he turns around again, Setsuna is out in the hall, still watching him.

"Look, do you want something from me, or are you just really fucking bored?" Nothing. "Tell you what," he says, struck by inspiration. "Want to learn how to clean up a crime scene?"

The blank face actually starts to look interested; Halle grins. Lyle is going to love this. "Where do you cocksuckers keep your fucking matches?"

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a mini-arc that includes the following stories in the following order:  
> Sold; His Fucking Son; Aquarium.
> 
> "His Fucking Son" cannot be found on Ao3; please read it on Livejournal: <http://rent-a-gundam.livejournal.com/11586.html>


End file.
